Famille oblige
by journeyhome
Summary: It doesn't matter which side of the war they're on; family comes first. There's no Light or Dark, only Black. [Unrelated one-shots about the Black family]
1. Maternité oblige (Walburga, Sirius)

_**Summary:** Walburga looked in those determined eyes once more, the sparkle and the confidence that characterized him still there. She would preserve those. By playing the devil's advocate. She would save her son. [Set in the fifth book.]_

 _ **Is 'somewhat motherly!Walburga' a warning? :P Also, since this is Walburga's pov, it's not really Order friendly.**_

* * *

Trapped in her portrait, blinded by that dusty curtain, Walburga could still hear. And she didn't like it one bit.

 _"Sirius, my boy, there's nothing you can do apart from hiding."_

 _"Listen to Dumbledore, Padfoot. For once, do as you're told."_

 _"As if the mutt needed to be encouraged to stay safely at home. It's what he can do better."_

Poisonous whispers, cruel words reverberated in those sacred halls, haunting them, echoing in Walburga's ears and becoming louder and louder the more she struggled to hear something that never came: Sirius' retorts.

This same House had been filled with those twenty years ago, quick and sharp and never missing their target.

Now only the silence met the insults that seem to cling to Sirius, defeat wrapping him as a cloak around his downcast shoulders, his elegant posture gone. And Walburga—who had been trying her best not to be a supportive, observant mother to her firstborn, not after his defection—felt like she was the only one to notice it, see through him.

 _"Sirius, you're not a child,"_ Mrs. Weasley would say. _"Don't act like one."_

Walburga couldn't understand what was wrong with that blood-traitor. Of course, he wasn't a child and he most definitely didn't act like one—didn't act like himself.

.o.

.o.

A good mother always knows what her children need, even before they know it themselves.

Walburga had discovered herself—with utter surprise and shock—acting like one, anticipating her sons' needs, despite having sworn she would not take part in their education; that's what House-elves are for, she had always been told and had always believed it. Firmly. Until that first little bundle of life had been delivered to her by the Medi-witch.

 _Sirius, the star that would enlight her and her husband's lives._

For him, they had both broken the ancient, honorable traditions. Orion himself had held his firstborn, which was unheard of.

.

The soft words and comforting gestures had come rather easily to Walburga in Sirius' childhood, when he barely spoke and was glad to accept something, anything, from his parents, when he was too young to understand, when the darkness could be defeated by a simple _lumos_.

Walburga would softly press her lips against his forehead, Orion would lightly clasp and squeeze his shoulder, and Sirius would smile, his grey eyes sparkling.

.

"—because we must preserve the essence of magic. You would protect your most precious gift, wouldn't you?"

Sirius had nodded.

"Protect our magic, son. Don't let any filthy creature steal it."

Sirius had cast his eyes down as he nodded again. "Yes, Mother."

Walburga had been pleased.

.

"I don't understand, Mother."

"They are filthy, they have _muggle_ blood in their veins, and that's unacceptable."

Sirius' fists had been closed tightly, his eyes had met Walburga's with something similar to rejection and distaste.

She had been the first one to look away.

.

Sirius had started refusing anything from them; Walburga's comforting caresses, Orion's encouraging pats, Regulus' concerned words. She knew they had all been labelled as heartless, conceited people who needed to be _saved_ so that they could see the light.

"It's not that hard to accept," Sirius would advocate everyday, his cheeks red in the heat of the moment, his eyes wise. "I did. Our pure blood don't make us the best. I've known Muggleborns and Halfbloods being as good as—or even better than—Purebloods. You are just blinded by your pride—"

Walburga couldn't help herself, and one day, exasperated, she had slapped him.

He had turned his burning eyes on her, and she had felt like there was something between them again, like her son had been still there, inside that muggle-friendly shell, like they—or rather, she—could still save their relationship and in the process, she hoped to save her son too.

He had been young—too young—and somewhat naive, due to his protect childhood, and walking into the world with such open-minded opinions, wearing his heart on his sleeve, would damage him greatly.

She had looked in those determined eyes once more, the sparkle and the confidence that characterized him still there.

She would preserve those.

By playing the devil's advocate.

It would be her secret and the only way to reach her son; as much as she regretted it, he had grown to accept their hate, but not their love.

She would save him.

.o.

.o.

Soft, insistent voices called Walburga back.

 _"He's not James."_

That woman's nerve! She should have deemed herself lucky Harry was not his father. No one had ever dared underestimate her Sirius and the young James Potter before. And with good reason.

The Potter she knew would not have tolerated this. Potter would have defended Sirius, would have returned the fire in his eyes and the confidence in his scarred soul, like he always had done when her firstborn failed to realize his worth in everyone else's eyes.

It had taken time, but she had learned to be grateful to James Potter—to the same boy that had stolen their own son and Heir from them—for being able to reach Sirius when they could not any longer. For giving Sirius the love and care he didn't accept any longer from the people he had once called 'parents.'

Another string of cruel echoes bounced persistently against her curtain, managing to force it open when a loud _thud_ followed by her great-niece's awkward apologies hit it.

It was what she had been expecting. Hearing that bunch of Blood-traitors, Half-bloods, Mudbloods and Halfbreeds insulting her firstborn, dismissing him, disregarding his blood and status, had gotten unbearable.

How dare they?

How dare Sirius let them?

Eagerly finding her son's blank eyes—she suppressed a sigh at the sight—and expecting to finally see something alive and fierce flickering in them, she took a deep breath and screamed, forcing as much malevolence and spite in her insults towards him as she could, hoping to shake him off his numbness. It had always worked in the past.

Sure enough, her screeches—mixed with Sirius' angry words—purified the House—and his spirit—in a way that red-haired housewife and her fellows could have never done.

When the curtain closed again, silence filled the hall.

It was pure, clear, safe, and Walburga savored it.

* * *

The end

* * *

 _ **A/N**_ _ **Since I wrote this for the Mother's Day 2017 event on the amazing Golden Snitch forum, I tried to picture a more human and motherly Walburga. I'm usually all for evil!Walburga but in this case, I felt she deserved better.  
**_

 _ **Prompts: (word) portrait, (word) secret, (setting) Grimmauld Place**_

 _ **School, House: Beauxbatons, Melusine**_

 _ **Points: 10**_

 _ **WC: 1081**_

 _ **Written for the Jurassic Fever challenge on the Golden Snitch forum. Prompt:** **Ankylosaurus - Write about a character defending their family**_


	2. Toujours pur (Orion)

_**Characters:**_ _Orion, Voldemort, Sirius (mentioned)_

 _ **Summary:**_ _Regulus's death is an eye-opening experience for the Patriarch of the Black family. They are in danger of extinction. But there's still a living Black, the Heir, and Orion focuses all his efforts on him.  
_

 _ **Warning**_ _ **:**_ _character death_

 _ **Notes:**_ _both Regulus and Orion died in 1979. For the purpose of this story, Regulus was the first one to die._

 _ **Word count:**_ _1012_

 _ **Beta(s): Sophy (The Crownless Queen)**_

* * *

Orion's nostrils flare ever so slightly at the familiar cinnamon smell that lingers in the air as he leans against a broken wall waiting for his supposed _informant_.

Most of his memories involve that aroma; spicy and exotic. It tastes like foreign countries, like freedom. The cinnamon flavor has always snatched his senses he remembers, his mouth watering as his nostrils catch it again, unable to let it go.

When he was little and crying in secret, one of the Elves would always comfort him by baking cinnamon cookies. He would just stuff them in his mouth, eager to shut down that pain in his chest, that deep-seated longing for love, tenderness, a caress—home. Grimmauld Place, stern and in a smoky London, certainly didn't deserve that title.

He still misses the estate in the country where he spent the first years of his life.

He taps his foot on the ground and walks around to keep himself busy. Patience has never been his strong suit, yet he knows he has to wait at least another hour to make the effort worth it.

Absentmindedly, he kicks the ground a few times, messing with it until his shiny shoes are covered with dust.

The cinnamon flavor still lingers, reminding him once more of why he was doing this, taking this risk: _family_. At least, what remains of it, as Regulus's death has proved to carve a bigger hole in their family dynamic than Sirius's escape could ever have. But maybe that's why he feels the urge to protect them.

 _Toujours pur_.

It's time to show those are not hollow words.

 _Cinnamon._

 _The spice of Gods and Kings._

 _Of the Blacks._

.

There's a rotten smell in the Dark Lord's lair, but Orion, his back rigid, his posture elegant and proud, ignores it and stares, unimpressed, into his Master's eyes.

It's a gesture of defiance, he knows it, but he—the only unmarked one among them all—can afford it. A nod is the way he usually recognizes Lord Voldemort's supposed authority.

He feels the Dark Lord's eyes burning into his own, searching, demanding access to his mind; which Orion graciously allows, the memories—real ones mixed with made up ones—ready.

 _The wall._

 _The cinnamon smell._

 _His prints._

 _His dusty shoes._

 _Suddenly, someone else's boots and prints are in sight. Sirius's._

Orion feels his Master skim through the reunion he and his son had—he knows they are but trivia to him—to finally reach the crucial point.

" _Thank you for this meeting, Father."_

" _You heard about Regulus, I trust."_

 _Sirius's frame flickers._

Orion feels a drop of cold sweat rolling down his neck as he steadies his mind to make the illusion stronger and believable, but the pain for his younger son's death is still sharp.

He feels his Lord skim through this part, clearly uncomfortable with the topic.

"— _as he said they were found killed, all eyes were on me._ _After all this time, all they see is a Black,_ _Father._ _"_

" _There's a reason why the Blacks stick together, Son."_

" _I'm coming home. I can't deal with people who know neither honor nor trust."_

The Dark Lord nods satisfied and Orion feels relief washing over him, knowing the memories he made up were rough and the dialogue lame at best, but he's learned that his Master's ambition and presumption know no bounds; the Dark Lord wants the Black Heir and Orion has made him believe the Black Heir wants to be on their side.

He can only hope it'll be enough to protect his son both from Voldemort—who wanted him dead for being a Blood-traitor—and from Dumbledore. Sirius's not aware of Orion's plans and his loyalty is unwavering. Everyone knows it.

Orion casts a brief, dismissive glance on the cheering Death Eaters, feeling their filthy hands patting his shoulders as they compliment him. His niece Bellatrix is the loudest of them all, her appalling laughter a howl in his ears.

It's in moments like this that his determination falters and he wonders whether the Blacks are even worth his efforts. Maybe their time is over. It's been long, too long, since the last time a God set foot on Earth, and even the light of the stars is not eternal.

Maybe this world is not the right place for them anymore.

.

"Well, Orion," the Dark Lord says one day. "I've been informed that you have recently seen the truth. Of course, my initial pleasure turned into disappointment as soon as I knew your _truth_ doesn't match my own anymore."

"I think our _truths_ still match, but I've indeed come to recognize some of my mistakes—and yours. I knew there was something wrong, something rotten with you from the first time I saw you. I would have never believed it was your blood—the filthy blood which we both aim to cleanse."

The best kept secret in the whole Wizarding World, the unwanted truth was out. He hasn't planned to use this knowledge so soon, but he knows the Dark Lord is getting close to discover Orion's own secret and he has to think of Walburga and Sirius. If it requires his death, so be it. He won't let his family be exposed to any risk.

(" _Blood disease," the healer said. "You have a year to live, at best." It came as no surprise; it had always been like that in their family._ )

"It'll be a shame to lose you," is all Riddle says, sounding truly sorry and drawing his wand.

Orion is unbothered and calmly—no one could ever claim to see a Black defeated—waits for the blackness to wrap him. He likes it when black is all that surrounds him.

Black is his Noble and Most Ancient House, Black is the family is trying to protect and is devoted to, black is the sky where each of their namesakes resides and shines.

Black feels like home.

There is no Light or Dark.

Black is what he's fought for.

The green light rushes toward him.

 _Family._

 _Toujours pur._

 _Toujours pur._

 _Toujours_ —

* * *

 **I've been entertaining thoughts of human!Orion &Walburga lately, so here's another one-shot about it :p The Black family is so intriguing! I'm actually not as satisfied with this fic as I was with the previous one but I hope you enjoyed it nevertheless :) Thank you for reading!**

 **(I also think that this may be a further reason for people not to trust Sirius, but I found it too heartbreaking to include it...)**

 **.**

 _ **Written for the**_ **Just Like a Circus** _ **challenge on the wonderful**_ **Golden Snitch** _ **forum (come and join us!). School, House: Beauxbatons, Melusine  
**_

 _ **Main prompt: TIGHT-ROPE WALKER: Write about your character (a minor character) taking a risk.**_

 _ **Optional prompts: (restriction) no using a '?' - (restriction) No using any female Gryffindor characters - (word) exposed - (word) trivia – (word) defeated**_


	3. The gas stove room

**Characters:** _Walburga, Orion, Sirius, Regulus_  
 **Summary:** _the room that housed the gas stove was everything it was not supposed to be: small, windowless, and with an air-tight door._  
 **Genre:** _angst/family/drama_  
 **Rating:** _T_  
 **Word count:** _2101_  
 **Warnings:** _death, murder, suicide_

 _AU in which Sirius is Walburga's stepchild._

 **Shout out to my awesome teammates!  
**

* * *

 **QLFC, round 7. Team: Arrows. CHASER 1: Write about a witch or wizard trying to explain to a magical child how (one or more) Muggle technology works. Prompts: (word) motor, (phrase) change the lightbulb, (object) broken torch**

* * *

~The gas stove room~

.

She had decided to do it—kill him—mainly because he had left that inelegant metal tube in her living room— _torch_ , he had called it. "But this doesn't work, Mother. It's not fun!" he had said after pointing it at her and making it click uselessly several times. Then, he had thrown it on the couch and had left.

Obviously, this wasn't the only thing that annoyed her about him, but it had been the last straw.

Not caring about traditions and prestige, he kept bringing home Muggle objects and spreading them all over the house, continuously praising them as if they were gifts sent by the great Salazar himself. He never stopped talking, even while he ate, his mouth full of food and disgusting words, his eyes distant and bright with excitement.

She couldn't but feel horror and disdain towards him and his filthy collection.

.

"Reconsider it, Orion. The boy will just shame us and our fathers."

"We've already talked about it, Walburga," Orion said firmly. "Sirius is my heir, and no one else will take his place. It doesn't matter how much you love Regulus and dislike him. It's his birthright. This is beyond either of us."

"So you're leaving our Regulus with nothing but a handful of Galleons because of your Sirius."

"You knew what you were doing when you married me. You knew I already had a son and I merely needed someone to mother him. Don't blame me for your greedy hopes, Walburga. Regulus is merely a Black, but in Sirius' veins, there's the purest blood in the world."

Her face distorted with fury and spite as she left her husband's chamber.

.

"Pureblood lines would die if they didn't marry Muggles or Muggleborns," Sirius said, and Walburga wished he had never been born, wished he was actually disrespectful towards her or Orion, but he just stayed there, pretending to care about the Ancient Families and their survival—as if marrying into any Muggle family with no name or position could save anyone.

"The electricity would be a great improvement. We wouldn't need to lose energy to cast any Lighting Charm. We'll just have to hit a switch—well, and change the lightbulb from time to time, but that's beyond the point."

He waved books and objects that didn't belong in Grimmauld Place, and Walburga just hoped he'd make any false move and lose Orion's favor.

It never happened.

Her husband was dangerously interested in some ideas—"Keep your friends close and your enemies closer," he usually waved off her worries, his gaze lost in some magazine portraying _motor vehicles_ —that's what the label said—and young women.

She was not convinced—she could detect a lie when she heard one, and she knew he didn't think about Muggles as his enemies.

Sirius' Muggle objects polluted the house of their fathers, and apparently, no one but her cared.

Maybe it was childish of her, maybe it was wrong to kill Sirius just because she was annoyed by him, but she could still take pride in one thing—she had always been a good mother; she'd be doing it for her only son, Regulus.

.

 _Cooking the Muggle Way_ was the last book Sirius had brought home and as usual, it had mysteriously found its way to Walburga's favorite couch.

It lay there, open, and a warning captured Walburga's attention.

 _Gas stoves are great for cooking, but beware: they emit chemicals that are harming your health as they give off unhealthy levels of noxious combustible by-products. Researchers estimated the levels of carbon monoxide_ —

She stopped reading, disgusted with herself for setting her eyes on such a filthy thing, but it was too late—an idea had just formed in her mind. After a last peek— _cooks are being exposed to an even greater concentration of these gas stove dangers_ —which confirmed her doubts, she closed the book with a dry laugh and hid it under a cushion.

.

It was a second-hand stove—by a sinister chance, she had found it in Knockturn Alley beside a rope that strangled anyone who had Muggle blood in their veins—and there were no directions, but Walburga knew exactly what to do with it: the room had been prepared long ago—small, windowless, and with an air-tight door, just like it was _not_ supposed to be.

Messing with the stove to make it more lethal had been easier than she expected.

A feral grin touched her lips as Orion's son passed by her right when she got out the small room. "Sirius! Sirius, wait, please. Come here; I have a gift for you."

"A gift?" he said, his eyebrows raising in disbelief.

"Yes." She smiled. "I found this book of yours—"

"Oh, I was looking for it."

"—and I thought you might be interested in trying your hands at cooking. There are many interesting... recipes."

Sirius' eyes sparkled.

Walburga gently pushed him in the room. "Here you won't bother anyone." _You won't bother anyone ever again,_ she thought, following him. "Let me help you."

"I appreciate it. Thank you."

Careful to keep herself as far as possible from anything too Muggle (knives and pans included), she opened Sirius' book. "There's a chapter devoted to the gas stove here."

"Hm." Sirius caressed the knobs and turned them.

"Wait. You must turn on the gas before using those, but—" she skimmed through the book. "—remember, there may be some risks; with these Muggles, you can never be too cautious…"

"Come on, Walburga. Muggles use this to cook, so it can't be murderous."

She wrinkled her nose. "Let me check first." She ran her finger on the page, looking at it intently. "No, it's safe."

"Told you!"

 _Such a Gryffindor confidence_. "Sure, dear. Now, let me explain how this thing works so I can be sure your recipes turn out as good as they can get."

Sirius shot her a suspicious look but said nothing about it. "Sure, tell me." He shrugged.

"Ah, it's easy. These—" She brushed the top of the stove. "—are called burners. You put your pan on them. These down here are the knobs and—ah, yes—each of them is connected to a burner. Here's the… _map_ of it."

"So I take food, throw it in the pan, and put the pan on the burner? I knew we could get rid of Kreacher!"

"For the umpteenth time, owning Elves is equal to the social prestige. You're not here to take Kreacher's place. That would be disgusting." She might hate him, but the blood purity came before anything else.

"If you say so. But I bet—Ah, this is going to be fun," he said, brandishing a big pan.

She took a little step backward. "Wait, we have not finished yet. The gas comes out from a hole in the burner which spreads the area of said gas, but beware, the book says—I knew there had to be some risk—the gas is flammable, so add one spark too many and goodbye, cook."

"What?" Sirius immediately dropped the pan.

The crash made Walburga shiver.

"Hm—" She pretended to read the book. "Oh. Well, apparently, you need to open them all so that you always have few sparks when compared to the gas… It's all relative."

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever read. Give me that book."

She handed it over—it had only taken a quick wandless and wordless spell to modify it.

He read it carefully. "Unbelievable! How can we be certain the author is reliable?"

"We cannot, dear, but you bought that book, so I trust you made the right choice when you picked it," Walburga answered, her voice overly sweet.

Sirius snorted.

"Remember," she said, " _cooks can control the level of heat quickly and easily with a gas stove by turning the flame up or down,_ the book says, but the only reason this control is so accurate is because it is very sensitive to any variation of gas flow—turning those knobs is probably similar to flicking your wrist while casting any spell—so be gentle while using them or the stove will catch fire. I assume you have no such a great contempt for our magic that you've forgotten how to use a wand," she said, finding horrifying that Muggles and wizards could make the same gestures.

"I've always told you Muggles and wizards are the same. I bet a Muggle could even use a wand."

She glared at him. "Don't push me. And pull your hair back; I don't want you to set it on fire," she said, knowing a burnt hair could smell so bad that Sirius would exit the room, which would make her plan fail.

"Don't fret about it, Walburga. I'm as fond of it as you are."

"Hm. One more thing before I go. I recommend starting with some easy recipe—this one about fried eggs sounds fine—since building intuition for how long to cook something at the right temperature may be very tricky according to the author."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, saluting.

As she was leaving, he called her, "Walburga? Thank you."

She hesitated for a moment, then she turned and fixed her gaze on those bright silver eyes of his that would soon tarnish. Smiling, she kissed his forehead. "My pleasure. Just remember anything I tried to explain—if you can smell gas, it means you're doing it all right."

"I know, I know. I have it under control. I won't be the downfall of the House of Black."

"I'm sure you won't, dear."

 _I know you won't._

.

"MY SON," Orion roared. "You killed my son!"

Walburga refrained herself from asking, _Isn't Regulus your son, too?_ and said, "You're wrong, my dear husband. It was his insane love for Muggles and their ways that got him killed. Haven't you noticed where his body was found and what the book said about the dangers of a gas stove?"

Orion's "Why?" was no more than a choked, defeated sound, but she heard it anyway.

"I know nothing else. Anything Muggle is of no concern to me."

"I'm sure you know. Don't play dumb with me, Walburga, and tell me why you killed him."

"You ask me why," she carefully said. He hadn't drawn his wand yet, so Walburga deemed it safe to continue, "You ask for a reason." She knew he was too proud to stain their name with a murder charge. "There is one, you know. Yes, there is."

He waited.

"Who hated my son? Everyone. You included. You've never wanted him—"

"You've just proved me right."

"They hated him because he was mine. Me, they didn't dare torment, but Regulus, a child—" She covered her face with her hands. "And he, Sirius, would inherit—handsome, rich, loved." She cast her burning eyes on him. " _My_ son will have all of this. Yes, I'm the one behind Sirius' death. I've killed. For Regulus, for my son."

Orion considered her for a long time. Then, he spoke, his voice cold, "You won't go to Azkaban; I don't want a scandal. Sirius' death will be described as an unfortunate accident. However—"

"Anything for my son."

"I'm going to the Ministry. When I get back, may justice be done." He quickly left.

Walburga paled and felt her strengths leaving her. She collapsed on the nearest chair. "Kreacher!"

The Elf popped up in front of her and bowed.

"Tell Regulus I'll wait for him in the gas stove room, then bring me some paper, ink, and a quill."

Kreacher bowed again and disappeared.

Walburga grinned. "You'll have justice, Orion."

.

"What's this, Mother?"

"This, Regulus, is the stove that fascinated your brother."

He stumbled backward. "It's evil. Why are we here, Mum?"

She stroked his hair. "Hush. I'm here with you. I just thought you may be interested in it too."

"I—"

"It's easy. And Muggles use it every day without being harmed in any way. Trust me."

He nodded.

"First of all, we open the gas."

Regulus wrinkled his nose. "It smells."

"Yes, that's what prevents Muggles from getting hurt. Then, we put a pan—where did he hide it? Oh, here it is—a pan on the burner, and we wait."

"Are you sure? Isn't fire needed?"

"NO! No, that would be very dangerous as this gas is flammable."

"What?" Fear entered her son's eyes.

"It's all right. And I still have my wand. See?" She conjured a little couch and sat down. "Come here, my child."

Hugging Regulus close, Walburga grinned and closed her eyes, the note for her husband clutched in her hand.

 _You know I've always been a good mother and I did what I did for him, for my son. A good mother never leaves her son behind._

.

The end

.


	4. The last star turn out the light

_**QLFC,**_ _round 8_ _ **. CHASER 1:**_ _MissingMommy's headcanon: Nobody ever said, "I love you." to Regulus._ _ **Prompts:**_ _(object) zinc, (restriction) no Hogwarts staff is to be mentioned, (first line) I/He/She live/s for disbelief…_

 _ **The Golden Snitch, Father's Day Event:**_ _Orion Black_ _ **. Prompts:**_ _(word) scar, (word) hurt, (emotion) love, (colour) black, (colour) emerald green, (object) ring, (word) moon, (word) brave.  
 **Ollivander's Wand Shop:**_ _Write about a Slytherin character._ _**[Beauxbatons, Melusine]**_

 _ **Many thanks to Star-Scrap and to Sophy and my teammates.  
**_

 _ **A/N Orion and Walburga are basically the same age for the purpose of this story. Also, (this is more of a reminder than anything) both Orion's father and Cedrella's father are named Arcturus.  
**_

 _ **Warning:**_ _not really, just hints at something that may seem dark-ish but it definitely isn't, merely Walburga being deceived by someone who claimed to love her. I hope to have a companion fic about that up soon ;)_

* * *

 **~The last star turn out the light~**

* * *

She lives for disbelief, and that's all she believes in—it keeps her going.

Orion, knowing this, never asks Walburga for something she can't give. Her faith he knows he doesn't have, nobody does; but whenever she turns, her eyes betraying more than her pride usually lets on, whenever her step falters and she reaches for him— _unconsciously_ , that much is clear—he makes sure she'll find him, find his steady hand, before anything else; even if she doesn't believe she will.

The little, rigid nod he gets is sufficient recognition for him; it's not her love he seeks—he doesn't need to; if she had love to give, it'd be his to take—but they, their whole family, have an implicit deal about it, and he respects it. So do Walburga and little Regulus.

As often happens, it's Sirius the first one to break it. He's barely four years old and hasn't shown any sign of rebellion yet, but he does. He looks around, shifting his attention from Regulus to Orion to Walburga, his silver eyes sparkling, then he goes straight to his mother and says, "I love you," his honey-covered hands sticking to her silk dress as he tries to hug her. Her eyes wide and horrified, she shakes off the child and goes and picks up Regulus whose lips are now trembling and whose eyes are swelling up with tears.

"Hush," she whispers to their second-born, revulsion still ruining her features. "It's not real. You're safe. _I_ 'm safe."

Sirius looks at his own hands as if they were covered in blood before glancing at his mother, longing entering his eyes. And Orion, who has watched helplessly as the tragedy took place, finally takes pity of him, crouching down and putting a soothing hand on his firstborn's shoulder.

It's not the honey nor his total lack of propriety—a child should never speak unless called upon—it's those words that have been banned from their House a long time ago and are now synonymous with ash and death.

As Walburga takes Regulus away, Orion picks Sirius up, a heavy feeling setting on his shoulders for failing his wife, failing the little loving heart that beats in this child's chest.

Because Orion knows, has always known, but now it's too late: Sirius has just lost his mother.

.

 _Orion is eight years old when he sees it happen for the first time. Hidden in his father's study, his heart pumping in his chest with fear, he observes as his father and his great-uncle strip Cedrella of her name, her essence.  
_

 _"Pay attention, Arcturus. You have a daughter so it'll be good for you too," says Orion's great-uncle before turning to his daughter,_ _ _"Very well, Cedrella. A_ certain Blood-traitor had the temerity to come and ask for your hand in marriage. What do you have to say?"  
_

 _"Oh, father," she sighs. "I told him not to."_

 _"Told him? Am I to assume you two have indeed established some sort of relationship?"_

 _Crouched down beside the filing cabinet, Orion can only see his father's shiny black shoes_ _—all his weight on his heels, sign that he's uncomfortable_ _—and hear his great-uncle's cold voice which sends shivers down his spine._

 _"Father, I_ _—" Cedrella says.  
_

 _Great-uncle Arcturus slams his fist on the table. "Tell me what kind of curse hit you, intoxicated you to the point that you felt that talking to this Blood-traitor was acceptable. I demand to know."  
_

 _Orion sees Cedrella's hand fidget with the silk of her own gown restlessly as a whisper that he doesn't catch escapes her lips._

 _"You're right to be afraid,_ girl, _you're right." Great-uncle Arcturus gets up and walks toward Cedrella, his black shoes stopping just a few inches from her velvet slippers.  
_

 _Orion hears a muffled whimper._

 _"Come and see the results of your twisted love,_ girl _."_

 _They leave and after a few minutes, Orion takes a deep breath in and follows them; the Tapestry burns for over an hour, and he can't avert his eyes for long time after, so when a heavy hand comes down on his shoulder, he flinches._

 _"Father," Orion says, "what is love? Why was great-uncle so angry?"_

 _"Your great-uncle is angry because he loved his daughter and she betrayed him. Consider this; if you had a plant and one of its branches got ill, wouldn't you cut it to preserve the rest of the plant?"_

 _Orion nods._

 _"Love is ruthless, my son. Love means sacrifice and pain; if you love something ill, either you kill it or it'll destroy you."_

.

 _He is ten years old when Walburga comes to him, her posture unladylike for the first time since she knows her._

" _M-mother said she loves me." Her lips are trembling, but the little wrinkle in her forehead tells Orion that not a tear will fall; she's focusing too hard on that._

 _He doesn't understand. His parents may or may not be proud of their children, but love_ _ _—whether it is good or bad_ _ _—__ goes unspoken_ _. He frowns. "Isn't that supposed to be a good thing?" He's never said anything to her about what had happened when he was eight.  
_

" _No, because love makes you weak; it means I can never make her proud_ — _this is the consolation prize. Father says love is for M-muggles, who created it to mimic that magic they lacked and envied."_

 _Orion puts a hand on her shoulder. "Do not fret over it, Walburga. I'm sure that doesn't mean anything. Your mother_ — _she's not a Black," he says as if that explains everything._

 _From Walburga's relieved eyes, it does._

 _._

 _He is fourteen years old when Walburga sends him an unexpected owl, her handwriting elegant and neat, but the ink stain at the end of the parchment tells him otherwise._

'Promise me you'll never love me. Promise me those words will never cross your lips. People who speak them are the first ones to betray you. Love leads to jealousy, and jealousy leads to blindness. You can't trust a person who loves.'

 _His reply is quick and concerned._ 'What happened?'

'It's Lucretia. She claimed to love both and me and Alphard, but when he kissed me, she almost sent both him and me to our deaths. We survived only because my father always taught me pride is the only possible feeling; anything else is a lie, a pitiful lie created to sooth those who are fool and inferior. We survived thanks to my distrust.

Give me your word, Orion. I couldn't believe in you any longer otherwise.'

 _He is young and he likes Walburga; he gives his word without dwelling on her request or her reasons._

 _Giving up something has always been the law of any agreement, and the neat, elegant_ 'Thank you' _he gets in reply is reward enough for having renounced something that he doesn't have. Any Black would deem themselves lucky._

 _._

 _It's not until he is seventeen years old that he realizes he made a mistake that fateful day, and now, it's too late; Orion Black can't love Walburga ever again, but he's the only one who she still lets in, and he must be happy with that._

 _There's something satisfying and empowering in knowing the proud Walburga Black turns to him whenever something dramatic forces her shields down. That, and he secretly approves that no one but a Black can see another Black's weaknesses._

.

 _He's twenty-one years old when she gets the most ruthless promise from him._

" _Promise me you'll never tell any child of ours you love them."_

" _But, Walburga—"_

" _Promise me," she demands. "They must learn to fear those words as much as they'll despise Muggles and Mudbloods."_

 _He stares into her steel eyes and surrenders because he now understands how dangerous, how weakening, love can be, and he doesn't want this for his children._

" _Thank you," she whispers._

.

Dejectedly, Orion look as Sirius' chest moves up and down; the child's breath is ragged, his eyes are red from crying, but he looks serene in his sleep, and Orion leaves his son's room and heads towards his and his wife's chambers.

Walburga is there, darkness and power wrapped around her like she is the Goddess of the Night. Her magic crackles around her. "He said—" Her voice falters. "—he loved me."

In a sudden moment of clarity, Orion knows she is not talking about Sirius.

"He looked like an angel whose wings just needed to be mended, but he was the devil himself. I loved him—"

Hurt and some other bitter feeling he has never tasted blossom in Orion's chest at those words.

"—and he said he loved me like the moon loves the stars, but we forgot that the moon cheats on them with the sun after tenderly kissing them each night. He played with love like he played with death." She lets out a shaking breath and looks up at Orion, fidgeting with her wedding ring. "I should have known, Orion. All my pride, all my disbelief—he made me throw it all away. That letter—do you remember—it was not Lucretia. It was _him._ I sent it because I couldn't face you—not after that."

"Walburga," he says, and it's a sigh of defeat and a breath of life at the same time. In her name, pronounced with such reverence and pain, he's conveying the forbidden words— _I love you._

She smiles, a sad one. "He wanted to solve the _riddles_ known as love and death, and he needed me. Well, I solved them; dying leads to a corporeal end while loving someone... Love destroys your soul, makes you a ship doomed to sink and see its own pieces and sailors go down with it. Love is a neverending search for thorns." She pulls her sleeve up to reveal a little scar. "This is the result of that love, of my doubting my own disbelief."

Orion remembers that one.

She's never confessed how she'd gotten it, but it was him who'd bandaged it after applying some zinc powder, the first antiseptic thing he could get his hands on.

"I should have known from the way he waltzed around Alphard too that it was my surname, our family power, he pursued. For a brief, glorious moment, I thought, I believed… But no, the price is too high. After giving this ruthless deity that is known as love this last chance, I promised to myself that no child of mine would ever suffer the same fate, the same humiliation—that they'd never bow to such treatment. Blacks bow to no one."

"I know, Walburga. And you know you have my word."

"Yes, but Sirius came into contact with that filthy thing somehow. We must preserve him and little Regulus at any cost. It's our duty to make sure they don't surrender to love therefore falling prey to anyone who speaks about it. They must learn to rely only on themselves."

"Regulus will never hear those words; I'll make sure of it."

"Please, remind Sirius too, even if—"

Forlornness and grief descend upon them for the loss of their fine heir; there's no doubt in their minds that he'll betray them.

Those who love always do.

.

Orion would never admit it, but his wife's story upset him.

He's learned to trust her when she said love is nothing but cold ash that feeds off pain and fear, and now he's seen firsthand the kind of legacy it brings—those who are trapped by love can only inherit cold wind and a handful of words that are as sweet as the honey whose goal is to bind together its victims' teeth, depriving them of their wills.

He can't do anything for her—teenagers experience disappointments and there's no real slight to avenge. But he can be sure his sons—the two stars who brighten his existence—learn to reject love and won't suffer because of it.

It's easier to discard something that's not luring.

It is with these thoughts in mind that, under Walburga's watchful eyes, Orion starts a new tradition that night, hoping it'll help suffocating his own feelings too.

Love appears in the literature time and time again, and it's overly easy to find extracts that put it in a bad light.

The fact that he has to use _Muggle_ literature to prove his point is a bonus—two evil things knotted together.

After each session, Orion kisses Sirius' and Regulus' heads and says, "Pride is the only possible feeling because it's born of actions, and actions are the only thing that defines a wizard and marks him as a conqueror or a parasite. Everything we have, every great achievement comes from independent work. Those who want to bind people together by love or any other mean are but parasites. That's what love turns you into."

Standing in the doorframe, Walburga grins.

.

Andromeda is the first one to fall victim to some loving Muggle and betray the family.

After mourning for her for seven days—despite their dark surname, the Blacks have always been like white stoats: best dead than stained—Orion and Walburga have the surveillance beefed up even though they know for Sirius, it's too late; he's been slipping further and further away from them to the point where Walburga decides to stop eating honey.

"It's too sticky," she says, absentmindedly rubbing her chest.

Orion nods and keeps silent.

"Do you think Sirius ever said _it_ to our Regulus?"

He shakes his head. "I'm sure he didn't. Regulus told me that he's proud of his brother and that there's still hope for him since he declared, rather loudly in the Great Hall, neverending love to James Potter. According to Regulus, Sirius will be back home by the end of the year." He doesn't speak about the jealousy that had surfaced in his younger son's eyes, and like him, he allows his hope to be restored—for what else could a father do when his family is falling apart in front of his eyes? "Sirius knows the rules." He's not sure he believes it himself.

Walburga's face is a mask of indifference as he takes a bite of her toast, just a little difficulty in swallowing betraying the lack of honey. "Let's hope poor Andromeda's disgrace teaches them something," she says, her voice scratchy. "Orion? I trust you reminded him how proud we are of him for not giving into temptation."

"Of course, my dear."

.

When Regulus disappears and the news come that he's dead—too young, too innocent, too pure—Orion and Walburga's only consolation is that he's never heard those infamous words, that he's always eschewed them—any young Slytherin knowing not to cross the Black family, and the only ones who could be foolish enough to do so kept far away because unacceptable suitors.

They stare at each other, and Orion finds the same question that is haunting him in Walburga's wrinkled eyes, _Is this consolation growing to be our biggest regret?_

He shrugs it away.

A pat on the back on his eleventh birthday, a special treat for his proper sorting, praises and proud looks—they gave him everything. And if his gaze turned longing from time to time, wasn't his untouched honor all that mattered?

"He made us happy," Walburga says, staring at Regulus' room, her hand running to her scar. "So happy. I think I—"

"Walburga," he says, a warning in his calm tone. He doesn't want to hear it—that they were not good enough, that he was a bad father—he's not brave enough to face his own responsibilities. _Not now_.

"He—" She rubs her temples and turns to Orion, a baffling glint in her eyes. "Why are you wearing black robes? That's not my son; he's not dead" Her voice is sweet, serene as her eyes widen in surprise.

"Please, Walburga."

"My son is asleep." Her voice can still command armies.

"Come with me, please." He carefully reaches for her hand.

"No! Why should I come with you? My—do you know what I mean?—my… p-peace is here, in his bedroom, guarding his sleep. Let me be a good mother." She draws her wand and conjures a sign that says, _Do Not Enter Without the Express Permission of Regulus Arcturus Black_. "Can we hang this, Orion? He'd like it."

Orion takes it without a word. As he watches Walburga petting the covers of an empty bed, he's not surprised to see she didn't— _couldn't_ —believe such tragic news.

Losing their niece first and their firstborn later has hit them hard, but Regulus? He shakes his head, heartbroken.

She lives for disbelief—that's the reason she's still alive albeit mad—and never in his life has Orion even been more grateful for it—and more envious.

He silently walks out of Regulus Arcturus Black's room—bright emerald green, symbol of an ambition that will never see the light of the day, mocking him—and closes the door behind himself.

* * *

 **A/N it's actually zinc oxide that is helpful in wound healing, but I'm not sure how much wizards know about Chemistry (if at all), so I thought that zinc powder - maybe mixed with some magical ingredient - is something they're more likely to use (hopefully!).**

 **word count: 2790**


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